Jurauk did not expect Soren to corner him after a morning to strenuous sword fighting. He approached him in the washing rooms, his long brown hair still wet from the shower.

     Neither wore anything beyond trousers which hung low on their hips. Jurauk was examining a large bruise blossoming across his bare shoulder as he stood before a mirror. He scowled at the twinge of discomfort, even as it shrank before his eyes. Then he saw Soren behind his reflection.

      His elder brother's arms were crossed. Confused, Jurauk pressed himself against the wall, his muscles taut as a bowstring, awaiting some imminent attack. But none came.

      Soren held up a hand. "At east, Jurauk. I haven't come to hurt you."

     "Really? Or are you just here to gloat about how you beat me in that fight?" Jurauk tapped the bruise, which was strategically placed so that the wood blade would hit nerves hard enough to force him to drop his own sword. Soren shrugged.

     "You win, I win. We're evenly matched. What can I say? Now, quit being salty about this. You'll have more chances later."

     "Just get on with it." Jurauk dared to turn his back so he could pick up his discarded tunic lying on a nearby bench.

     "Be careful tonight. You aren't the only prince wanted dead."

     Jurauk paused, his tunic halfway over his dark red curls. "What? I'm nobody. I'm not even the heir."

     "Or are you?"

     Soren's gaze was calm but cold. Jurauk choked on air. "Excuse me? You're delusional. I'm much younger than your twenty-one years of age."

     Soren opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes bulged, and his lips flapped madly. Then a sort of resignation settled over his face, and he said, "Yes, how silly of me. Carry on."

     He marched out almost mechanically. Jurauk's mind was thoroughly jumbled. Finally, he deemed the occurrence to be a joke Soren was playing on him. After he finished donning his clothes, he entered the garden, scanning for the appropriate flora.

     Trees and flowers flourished everywhere, their verdure astounding even as winter crept in. A warbling creek meandered along beneath a row of arching birches. Birds perched on fountains and branches, singing and chirping. Blossom ranging from the deepest of reds to the lightest of blues dotted the grass beside the elegant marble pathways embellished with ornate designs.

     His heart heavy, Jurauk gently severed a white rose from its home nestled within the briar. He felt bad for taking another, but reminded himself these were simply plants. Might as well do something with them than let them stay there till the end of their days.

     He winced as a thorn pricked him. A tiny trickle of blood winded down his palm, following the contours of his hand. Already, the torn flesh was knitting itself together until there was only a pale line which was fading fast. He shivered, feeling a pang of hunger. He needed to eat.

     The tiny bit of healing -both the bruise and the cut- were energy consuming. He sliced off the thorn which had harmed him. Bending down, he examined a bed of carnations, and after consideration, he chose a few pink and white blooms and added them to his growing bouquet.

     A few gladiolas and orchids followed, and by now, the bouquet was humongous. Their pleasant aroma reminded Jurauk very much of his mother, and how she used to fill her chambers with them. She had stuck them everywhere: in vases, the walls, the doorways, and even in her books she loved so dearly.

     There was never a moment where her rooms weren't filled with splashes of color. At least, not until she died.

     There was one more flower Jurauk needed. As he straightened, he heard a yelp as a figure purposefully fell into his arms. He was so flabbergasted, he staggered back and lost his balance. They both collapsed into the grass, nearly crushing a bed of daisies. Luckily, he remained a tight grip on the stems.

     "What the –"

     "Oh, Prince Jurauk! I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't watching my way and tripped!" babbled the female lying on top of him. Her pale hands were splayed across his broad chest, and a curtain of brass hair shielded her face. But there was no need to see it.

     "Don't lie, Elisabelle," Jurauk said sternly. He roughly pushed her off him, and she tumbled into a fountain, squealing. He didn't care if it hurt. This was the one Nefari he despised more than his brother. Underneath all the false lashes, bright smiles, and powdered skin, was a conniving snake.

     He would never make the mistake of falling for her again.

     She had scales of a liar, and fangs filled with venom, which she used to smile at him. "I'm not," she pouted, plump lips setting in a frown. "I'm telling you, I tripped." Jurauk growled, straightening.

     "Fine, you've apologized. Now get out of my sight."

     "Aw, I'm sure you'd don't want that," she crooned, gathering herself together and approaching him. "Dear, are those pretty flowers for me?" Her very presence made him shudder. She was subject both he and Soren were rather touchy about, as several years ago, the Crown Prince had asked her to marry him.

     She'd refused and gone after Jurauk instead.

     At the time, Jurauk had thought he was the luckiest man in the world. She was attractive and appeared kind, showering him with gifts and kisses.

     Then she'd stomped on his heart and flounced away, leaving the pieces mashed in the dirt.

     But now, Elisabelle wanted him back, and he wasn't going to oblige her. Even as she pushed her bosom towards him, he turned on his heel and stalked away, bouquet in hand. 

     "No, these aren't for you," he sneered. "They're for someone much more beautifu."

     She burst into crocodile tears, but he ignored them and bent down to pluck his final bloom. It wasn't quite violet, but not navy either. Even indigo couldn't be used to describe it. The larkspur had been Ryella's favorite. She had loved to wear one somewhere on her person. It would have been pinned to her dress or tucked in her dark red curls.

     The royal graves weren't too far. They were in the same stretch of the gardens but were placed in a further, secluded area. The headstones were lined in neat, organized rows. They ranged from the oldest -crumbling, barely legible stones in the back- to the newest ones in the front.

     There were already graves for the present va Haarvuk's. A chill crawled up Jurauk's spine as he took note of his own empty grave, lying in wait for his death. There was only one occupied slot in the front row.

     He tenderly lay down his bouquet on Impriessa Ryella's marble plaque. White roses for purity, carnations for gratitude and remembrance, orchids to point out her delicate beauty, gladiolas for strength of character, and finally the larkspurs for beautiful spirit.

     Her name, status, and dates of birth and death were the only things engraved. Jurauk wished the carver had taken the time to write a more sentimental note, but his father wouldn't have allowed it.

     "You're a man, Jurauk," he'd said the day after she'd died when he'd found Jurauk curled up in a ball, sobbing. "She's gone and won't be back. It'd be best if you forget about her."

     But Jurauk never forgot. He kneeled before the headstone. "Hey, Mother," he whispered. "It's me. I'm turning seventeen today. Isn't that strange? It's a huge milestone. I wish I could share it with you."

     He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the cool stone, whispering everything that had happened since he'd last visited.

     I miss you so much, was the one thing Jurauk couldn't bear to say.

yayyyyy churned out another chapter! how was it? if you liked it, please make that little star gold! I suppose plot-wise, this wasn't very eventful (except for maybe the beginning), but I felt like I wasn't putting enough stuff into Jurauk's personality.

I didn't even realize I gave Jurauk and Zora the same birthday O.o

Discussion Questions: What do you think Soren was talking about? Should Jurauk go back to Elisabelle (please say no lol)?